


Man of the Hour

by midnightdiddle (gooseberry)



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan)
Genre: Gen, Gotham City - Freeform, Political Campaign, Politics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-07-30
Updated: 2008-07-30
Packaged: 2019-01-31 04:36:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 692
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12674559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gooseberry/pseuds/midnightdiddle
Summary: "Dent's giving us a chance," he says, kicking at the bottom of the spotlight. He can't hear anything behind him, so he's not sure if he's alone, or if someone's looming over his shoulder, like a misshapen shadow."He's hopeful," Batman finally says, sounding almost grudging."Hope's good," Jim says, because it's what his wife said to him last night, when he was bent over the kitchen table, the newspaper obituary like a miss-and-fail record spread out in front of him. "Hope's something we lost long ago."--My one (and probably only) foray into Batman territory.  No real spoilers, takes place sometime in the midst of Dark Knight.Gordon, Batman, a campaign of Dent, and a drive-by moment of the Joker, because Harvey Dent's the man of the hour in Gotham City.





	Man of the Hour

Harvey Dent's the man of the hour of Gotham City, and the way the officers watch him, Jim's scared half to death. He knows Gotham's on a bad run. Hell, everyone knows Gotham's on a bad run. He knows it's probably a matter of time before Gotham finally collapses on herself, like she just can't stand anymore, and he knows that he and his family will probably be dead long before that day. But Dent, his face splashed on every poster-button-busside, makes the day seem closer and further away with every hopeful word.

Dent's got something Jim thinks Gotham lost a long time ago. Hope, or something like it. Maybe stupidity, or a daydream, or just a stubborness that hasn't turned to bitterness yet. Jim's pretty close to feeling bitter, is always pretty close to feeling bitter, and the way Dent talks, it sounds the way Jim used to feel five, ten, fifteen years ago, when he was new on the beat, and still thought cops were the good guys.

But then, Jim used to think that the good guys wore white, and the bad guys wore black.

Dent's bringing some of that back, though. Gotham's White Knight, standing at his podium with his hair gold-bright in the sunlight, like the color of his kids' hair. And when Dent turns to laugh at something an aide says, Dent looks like someone better than what Gotham City can churn out. But then, Gotham churned out Batman, and Jim'll never be able to figure out if Batman's the best or worst of Gotham, or both mixed together.

"Dent's giving us a chance," he says, kicking at the bottom of the spotlight. He can't hear anything behind him, so he's not sure if he's alone, or if someone's looming over his shoulder, like a misshapen shadow.

"He's hopeful," Batman finally says, sounding almost grudging.

"Hope's good," Jim says, because it's what his wife said to him last night, when he was bent over the kitchen table, the newspaper obituary like a miss-and-fail record spread out in front of him. "Hope's something we lost long ago."

Batman's quiet, like he's already left on his one-broken-man crusade, and Jim has to turn around, make sure he's still there.

"They can break it," Batman finally says, and Jim says, "Exactly."

"Dent," Batman says, and Jim says, his hands pressed against the hot metal of the spotlight, "We can't lose him. Gotham can't lose him."

"We can't lose him," Batman echoes after him, and Jim's pretty sure this is the most he's ever heard Batman say in one piece, is the longest he's ever stood on a cigarette-strewn rooftop with Batman staying in one place.

"If the Joker--" Jim can't finish the sentence, though, because the Joker can, the Joker will, because the Joker's like the old set of playing cards in the bottom of Jake's drawer, all the cards shuffled into a place so the worst bit always comes up first, never getting to 21.

"He won't." Batman's voice is grating, furious, and then he's gone, a twist of his cloak like he's some kind of god-forgotten shadow, or a Peter Pan, like in his kids' books. Jim doesn't bother to try to watch him go, because there's nothing out there but the creepy shadows and the slow spin of the stars, and the spotlight on the clouds over Gotham City.

"I can't lose him," Jim says to himself, or maybe to the air, or maybe to the Joker, like the Joker's been listening to everyone saying, _please, God, not him, not her, don't hurt me, God._ Or maybe he's saying it to Dent, like all of Gotham's saying, _please, just a little while,_ like it's a good trade, Dent's blood for a year and a half of peace. And maybe he's saying it because he hears his wife say it at night, when she thinks he's asleep, when she's sitting on the edge of their bed, the hall light creeping in past the bedroom door because no one sleeps with their lights off anymore. _Please, God, not Jim, I need him, God, please._ "I can't lose him."


End file.
